


Age Before Beauty

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: help_nz, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of my great migration from my writing LJ...</p><p>This is a fic from the help_nz livejournal drive some time ago.  Alltoseek requested I fill one of three prompts on the kinkmeme and the one I chose is: Sherlock fought the law and the law (or in this case, Lestrade) won...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Age Before Beauty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alltoseek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/gifts).



 

 

John knew that it was bound to happen sometime. Sherlock’s absence at the flat had been innocuous enough at first--John had returned home from the clinic and found the place empty, signs of Sherlock’s hasty departure relieving his mind somewhat (he wouldn’t take his coat if it was a kidnapping, John told himself firmly). At the four hour mark, John decided to worry. Who knew how long Sherlock had been gone before his return from the clinic and four hours added to that...well, John thought with a twist of sour concern in his stomach, that couldn’t be good. He texted, a simple 'where are you?’. No reply. Ten minutes later, he tried again. Same request, same non-answer. He decided to wait a bit longer then try again...

_Sherlock, you’re starting to worry me. JW_

If this is some power play, it’s stupid. JW

If you’re dead in a ditch somewhere, I’ m going to kill you. JW

Are you? Dead, I mean. JW

I suppose you couldn’t answer if you were. Right. Forget those last two. JW

 

John waited another half hour after his last text and vented a harsh, angry sigh. “Right,” he muttered. “Time to call in the cavalry.”

 

 

“Lestrade’s not in,” Dimmock replied to John’s query, sounding downright cheerful. “Had an early night, didn’t he? Something about anniversary dinner.”

“Bugger,” John muttered. “Well, is Sally there, then?” Not his first choice but if anyone knew if Sherlock had been caught up in a crime scene, it’d be her. Well, her and then Lestrade. Pretty much anyone on Lestrade’s team, John thought in a mild panic. Dimmock came back on the line after a moment and answered in the negative. “Bloody Hell, is no one in the Yard tonight?”

“Just me,” Dimmock sighed. “I have a dinner break at ten if you’re bored without your detective,” he added. “Fancy a kebab and some rugby talk at the Sign of the Rooster?”

John refused politely, wondering to himself who the Hell named gay bars in London any way, and hung up. Lestrade was not answering his texts and that left only one person. He hesitated, fingers hovering over the speed dial on his own phone. “No,” he said to the empty room, “not opening that can of worms yet.” He was reasonably intelligent, no matter what Sherlock sometimes implied, and would sort this out himself. Taking a surprisingly fortifying sip of his now-cold tea, John grabbed his jacket and shoved his feet into his still-laced sneakers before scrawling a note for his friend.

Out looking for you, you daft git. Text me if you get home before I do.

 

“I haven’t seen him since you were both here last,” Molly said, voice tinged with some sympathy. “Did you have a row?”

John smiled tightly, shook his head. “He was just out when I got home from work and, well, it’s been a while and he’s not answering his texts. I was hoping that, maybe, he was here. Flogging a corpse or collecting fingers or something.”

Molly’s answering smile made John cringe a bit inside. Ever since the Incident at the pool, she had been very...nice to him. Not that she wasn’t nice before but this had an almost pitying undertone to it, as if she were watching a slow motion wreck and she could do nothing to stop it. “It’s okay,” she said after a moment of silence that had gone on for just a shade too long. “He...he tends to forget people, doesn’t he? Most of us just don’t even register on his radar.”

“Molly, it’s not like that. I’m just worried...”

“It’s okay, John,” she said softly, patting his arm. “A lot of us have been there.”

He bit back a growl of frustration, thanked her, declined her offer to meet the Rejected By Sherlock support group (God, he hoped that was a joke), and hurried himself out into the evening. He checked Angelo’s, the Apple Genius Bar (Sherlock’s guilty pleasure, John had found, was making the poor workers there so frustrated that they seriously considered using Linux instead), and the alley near Baker Street where several of Sherlock’s 'connections’ spent the night. The man, John was finding, had not been seen in some days at any of his usual haunts. Even at some of the unusual ones, he amended mentally after a visit to a rather sketchy sex shop (riding crops had to come from somewhere, after all) and a kebab stand that sometimes provided Sherlock with information about the international crime scene. John rubbed his hands, trying to warm them against the lingering, early spring chill and closed his eyes for a moment as he waited at the taxi rank. If I were Sherlock, he thought, where would I be? Somewhere, he mused, I shouldn’t... “Even Sherlock wouldn’t be doing something as daft as breaking into the palace,” John muttered, ignoring the strange looks garnered from passer by. “Damn it, Sherlock, where the Hell are you?” He checked his phone again; still no texts. “Right. Scotland Yard,” he told the driver, settling back for the longest, shortest ride of his life.

 

“He’s not missing, Doctor Watson,” Dimmock sighed, looking as bored as humanly possible while still remaining awake. “He does a runner like this occasionally.”  
“Not to me,” John refuted, not caring that his voice was sharp and rough like a well loved blade. “Sherlock has not gone this long without checking in since...since the Incident.”

Dimmock leaned back in his chair and fixed John with one of those narrow-eyed, considering gazes that the doctor had become used to in his time with Sherlock, the “are they or aren’t they?” stare. John counted to ten in English, then Farsi, and was up to five in Arabic before Dimmock said carefully, “I really think that you should come to the Sign of the Rooster with me, John.”

“For fuck’s sake! I’m not going on a date with you, Dimmock! I’m not interested!”

“Did you think... oh, heavens no. I just think you need a few hours without worrying over Sherlock.”

“Oh, my God...” John shoved himself to his feet and raked his fingers through his short, already messy, hair. “If you’re going to fanny about like this, I’ll speak to your supervisor!”

“John...”

“Sherlock might be missing! They never did find Moriarty, you know!”

“John...” Dimmock was moving around the desk to stand in front of John, an amused expression tugging at his lips.

“If he’s hurt, so help me, I’ll--”

“John!” Dimmock clamped his hand over John’s mouth and raised a brow. “Come with me. Now.”

John closed his eyes and fought the urge to bite at the other man’s palm. “Fine,” he finally muttered. “If this gets your help in finding Sherlock, fine.”

Dimmock rolled his eyes and dropped his hand. “You worry to much, John.”

 

 

John was quiet for the entire walk to the pub, anger and worry and, he admitted, fear boiling in some unholy witch’s brew in his gut. He wanted to be sick, to scream, to tear open London and find Sherlock that instant, but he was traipsing along beside Dimmock, ignoring his inane chatter about the likely teams this year, about Sally and Anderson, about Lestrade’s pride of place on the pub’s list of dart champions. “For fuck’s sake,” John muttered as he followed Dimmock into the dimly lit pub, only to stop short at the sight before him.

“I told you,” Dimmock said loud enough to be heard over the singing, “you worry too much.”

Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective and self-styled sociopath, stood on a table near the bar and, arms folded across his chest, was belting out something that sounded suspiciously like a Lady Gaga song. “What the frilly fuck...” John felt a trifle dizzy as his emotional well-being did a complete 180 and the anger and fear and worry slid down, resurging as confusion, mirth and a healthy dose of relief. “Is he high?”

“Nope,” Lestrade’s voice said in John’s ear, too loud and slurred by one too many pints. “He bet me that he could beat me at darts!”

“Sherlock doesn’t play darts,” John said rather weakly. “What...”

“Said it was for a case,” Lestrade remarked, shrugging. “He said he could beat my high score since he had, in his words, excellent hand-eye coordination and control. I said no way he could beat me and...well, there ya go.”

Sherlock’s eyes found John’s and his mouth clamped shut. He leapt from the table and, in a few strides, was at the doctor’s side. “We will never speak of his again.”

“You bet Lestrade that you could beat him at darts?” John felt the mirth in his chest winning out over the other emotions. “You could’ve texted me back!”

“They took my phone,” Sherlock replied, openly sulking. “I have no idea how I’m supposed to use it to cheat but they seemed to think it has some magical powers.”

Lestrade grinned, dangling Sherlock’s phone from his fingertips. “Youthful enthusiasm and good looks will never beat age and skill,” he chided.

John rubbed his lips to keep from smiling as Sherlock snatched his phone back. “I’m curious about one thing,” he said as Sherlock grabbed his elbow and lead him towards the door. “Where did you learn that song?”

“Never ask me that, John... Just...don’t.”


End file.
